The A.D
by Brandon
Summary: The Assistant Director visits a pauper's grave.


TITLE: The A.D.  
AUTHOR: Brandon D. Ray  
EMAIL: publius@avalon.net  
SPOILERS: None  
RATING: PG  
CLASSIFICATION: SA  
WARNINGS: Character death  
SUMMARY: The Assistant Director visits a pauper's grave

The A.D.  
by Brandon D. Ray

The chauffeur was puzzled. He had driven for the Assistant Directorfor five years now, and for the previous incumbent for three years beforethat. He was therefore used to being called to duty at all hoursof the day and night; he was also used to ferrying his charge to meetingsin odd, out-of-the-way places. But being called on a Saturday afternoonto take the A.D. to a pauper's cemetery in a driving rainstorm -- thatwas downright weird.

He glanced briefly in the rearview mirror as he powered the big limoaround a corner. The A.D. was sitting quietly in back, seeminglystaring out the side window at the passing scenery -- but the chauffeurknew from long experience that whatever the A.D. was looking at, it wasn'train-swept Washington.

At length he eased the car to a stop in front of a small, run-down cemetery. A black, wrought-iron fence, waist high, ran the length of the block. Long grass and weeds grew up along the fence line; a cracked and tired-lookingsidewalk led up to a rusty gate.

The chauffeur started to get out of the car, but the A.D.'s voice stoppedhim: "You can wait in the car. I won't be long." Thechauffeur glanced again in the rearview, and for a moment the A.D. caughthis eye. They both knew it was a violation of the new anti-terrorismregulations for the A.D. to travel anywhere unescorted; they also bothknew that it was far from the first time they had broken that particularrule.

The right rear passenger door clicked open, the sound of rain thrummingon the sidewalk suddenly becoming noticeably louder. The A.D. steppedout onto the pavement and hastily slammed the door again. The chauffeursettled down to wait.  
  
# # #

She walked slowly up to the gate in the wrought-iron fence. Raincontinued to pour down out of sullen skies, and in moments the AssistantDirector was soaked to the skin. The gate swung open with a creakand a groan of protest, and she stepped through it and into the small,ill-kept cemetery.

For a moment, she thought she was alone. It was a small, crampedlot, with an abandoned building, apparently formerly a rooming house, onone side, and a shabby, dejected-looking church on the other. Stretchingout across the lot itself in neat rows were the headstones, a few shiny,white and new, most worn and pitted with age and neglect. Here andthere, someone had planted flowers, but most of the graves looked as ifthey hadn't seen a visitor in decades. Nothing moved.

The Assistant Director peered through the rain and general gloom. In the far corner was a mound of earth, partially covered by a tarpaulin,rising next to an open grave. She advanced a few steps towards thegrave, then suddenly stopped. There was someone standing next tothe grave. After a moment, she realized who it must be, and closedthe remaining distance.

"Mrs. Mulder," she said.

The figure turned towards her. Tired eyes flicked from the AssistantDirector's face to the waiting limo and back again. Finally, shespoke. "Dana Scully. It has been a long time." Again,she glanced briefly at the limo. "I didn't expect...." Hervoice trailed off.

The Assistant Director tried to think of something to say, but everythingthat crossed her mind seemed ridiculously inadequate. Finally, shecould only say, "I'm sorry." She hesitated a moment, and then noddedawkwardly towards the open grave. "Is he...is he...here?"

The other woman nodded. "Yes." Bitterly: "They dughis grave and put him in it; then the rain started and they left. I suppose they'll be back tomorrow, when the weather's fair."

The Assistant Director winced inwardly, as she heard the echo: "Fair weather friend." Angrily, she shook her head. Therewas nothing I could do,>> she insisted to herself. Nothing. Lord knows, I tried.>>

Mrs. Mulder took a step closer, and laid a hand on her shoulder. "I'm sorry, Dana. You didn't deserve that. I know you did everythingyou could. Fox was....was headstrong. Willful. Even asa boy, we could never control him. I sometimes think he must havehad some...some urge towards self-destruction." She turned and walkedback towards the grave. "I suppose I should move him, now that I'vefound him. I suppose that eventually I shall. But for now...Ijust can't. He has been so troubled; he deserves to rest. Myboy, " she murmured. "My poor boy."

The Assistant Director moved up to stand next to the other woman, andlooked down into the grave. Resting there in the mud, water poolingaround it from the steady downpour, was a cheap wooden casket. Standingthere, staring at it, she felt a sudden rush of memories:

Was it really only five years ago? Has it really beenonly five years since we were together? Only five years since wecrisscrossed the country, seeking the strange, the unnatural, the unexplainable? Only half a decade since that final day, when I came to your apartmentto tell you they'd offered me Skinner's job?

Oh, you supported me. You urged me to take it. Youtold me I had to think of my career, and pointed out what we both knewfrom the start: That our partnership couldn't last forever, and thatif it had to end, this was a better reason than most. You said youwould carry on, that your efforts would be bolstered by having an allyin management. You said... you said....you said....

And so I took the job, and then came that terrible day, onlya few weeks later, when I arrived at work to find your resignation lettersitting on my desk. I tried to call you. I wanted you to reconsider. I wanted to tell you how valuable you were to the Bureau, and how desperatelywe needed people like you, who were independent, and willing to take risks. I wanted to remind you of the essential balance the two of us created. I wanted to tell you that...that my life wouldn't be the same without youin it. So many things I wanted to say. But the phone just rangand rang, and you didn't answer. And the next day, it had been disconnected.

I looked for you, Mulder. I looked everywhere I couldthink. I even enlisted those three oddballs on your behalf, but eventhey couldn't find you. Even Frohike finally gave up. And slowly,we drifted apart as well. You were the glue that held us together. Eventually, even I stopped looking. But I never stopped thinkingabout you.

Then this morning the phone rang. A routine identity checkof John Doe #27 had revealed him to be a former member of the Bureau. The man on the phone asked me if we wanted to assert jurisdiction, sinceyou were once one of ours. He was polite, respectful and entirelycorrect...but I could tell from his tone of voice that he was just goingthrough the motions. After all, what interest could the Bureau havein one more homeless alcoholic, found dead in an alley, apparently of naturalcauses? And of course, I had to say that we had no interest.

But I couldn't stay away. In the back of my mind, thereremains that last, lingering doubt. How many times, when we workedtogether, did your persistence and dogged determination prove in the endthat an apparently natural death was not natural at all? How manytimes was I forced to admit that the world was a larger, stranger -- andmore wonderful -- place than I had believed? That there are, afterall, more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in my philosophy.

I could do it. I could take action, even now. Icould call the authorities, and tell them that I want to exert our jurisdictionafter all. I could have the body shipped to Quantico, and I couldpick up the tools I haven't touched in half a decade, and perform the autopsymyself. The findings would be inconclusive, and some data would belost, since the body has already been embalmed. But I could do it. I could. In the old days, when we were together, you would have insistedon it, and the odds are better than fifty-fifty that you would have beenright.

And yet, I cannot I haven't the heart. I look atthe worn, haggard face of the woman standing next to me, and I realizethat I cannot be so inhumane as to put her through that -- it might destroyher. She has lost her daughter. She has lost her husband, firstthrough estrangement and then in the final parting of ways which we allmust face. And now she has lost her son. I cannot -- I willnot -- endanger what peace she is able to find for herself by disturbingyour remains.

And so I am here. I am not here as your former partner. I am not here as a government official carrying out a routine, if onerous,duty. I am not even here as a scientist, trying to further the extentof human knowledge. I am here as a woman, a woman in sorrow becauseshe has lost someone very dear to her. I am here to say goodbye toa friend. I hope that you can accept that. I hope that youcan forgive me that I don't have the strength to press the issue. You were always the engine, driving us forward. That was never myidiom.

Oh, Mulder. There is so much I wish I could have saidto you. There are so many things I didn't understand when we weretogether, which now seem so very clear. Most of all, I wish I couldhave found the words to tell you that I understand you -- that I have alwaysunderstood you, and what you were trying to accomplish. Even as Iwas heaping doubt and skepticism on your ideas, I recognized their value. I am a scientist, and as a scientist, I know that questions must be asked,or there will never be any answers. Without the Galileos, stubbornlyinsisting that the Earth DOES move, there can be no progress.

I never succeeded in making that clear -- that the truth ISout there, and that we both were seeking it, just by different means. That is the biggest failure of my life. I failed you, Mulder. I hope that you can forgive me. I don't think that I can ever forgivemyself.>>

"Dana? Are you all right?"

Scully looked around, and saw that Mrs. Mulder's eyes were on her, warmand gentle with concern. Suppressing her own emotions, Scully forceda smile onto her face. "Yes. I'm fine. I'll be fine,"she repeated, speaking to herself as much as to the other woman.

"Fox always spoke very highly of you," Mrs. Mulder said. "Before...before..."

Scully nodded. "I understand. I thought well of him, too." Inwardly she raged at the awkward formality of her words. Whycan I never think of the right thing to say?>> she thought angrily. I always sound like such a cold fish. Why can I never manageto express my true emotions?>>

Yet the other woman seemed to understand, for again she laid her handon Scully's shoulder. "It's all right, Dana. It will be allright. Fox was a hard man to know, a hard man to care for. We both did the best we could, but in the end, he was too strong for bothof us. There is no shame in that. And now all that's left isfor us to grieve."

There seemed to be nothing left to say. Scully and Mrs. Mulderstood in the cemetery in the rain, looking at each other wordlessly, asstill and silent as the abandoned monuments to the dead which stood allaround them. Finally, Scully stirred, and looked at her watch. "I have to go," she said, hating herself again for her awkwardness. She turned once more to the open grave, and looked down into it at thecasket. It's really just a box,>> she thought. And inside of it is a human cadaver, no different from the hundredsof others I've dissected in my career. There's really nothing thereat all of the man I knew.>>

Finally, she turned away from the grave, and walked back towards thecar. As she reached the ancient, rusty gate, Mrs. Mulder spoke forthe last time.

"Dana?"

Scully turned to face her once again.

"Would you...would you like to have coffee together sometime? We could...reminisce." She smiled slightly. "Call it a wakefor teetotalers."

Scully paused. Her instinct was to refuse, to flee from this uninvitedhuman contact. The only way to protect yourself is to avoidcontact.>> She opened her mouth to decline, and said, "Yes. I'd like that very much."

She turned and walked out of the cemetery. Her driver startedto get out of the car to hold the door for her, but she waved him back. No point in both of them being soaked. She opened the door and slidinto her seat, heedless of the streams of water now running off onto theupholstery. She pulled the door shut, and for a moment she saggedback into the cushions. Then she opened her eyes again, to see thedriver staring at her in the rearview mirror.

"Destination, ma'am?" he asked quietly.

She paused for a long moment. Where did she want to go? Lord knew there was plenty of paperwork sitting on her desk, demandingattention -- and on a rainy Saturday afternoon, she wouldn't have to copewith the damned phone constantly ringing, people demanding "just a fewminutes while I run this by you", appointments, meetings, on and on, seeminglywithout end. The idea was enticing; it would allow her to regainher equilibrium, and lay back to rest some of the ghosts which had beendisturbed this afternoon.

Except to hell with it. Monday would come soon enough, and shewould have to climb back down into the trenches, like it or not. Today, and tonight, belonged to her. To her and Mulder.

"Take me home," she said.  


Fini 


End file.
